


You Make it Easy to Watch the World With Love

by judymoodyy



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Established Relationship, Everyone is at college and is happy ok, F/M, Fluff, Happy Pack, House Party, Mardi Gras, No Plot/Plotless, lil smut ref
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-23
Updated: 2018-03-23
Packaged: 2019-04-06 19:50:51
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,418
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14064306
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/judymoodyy/pseuds/judymoodyy
Summary: “Do you want my beads, Stiles?”“Mmmm. Gimme.”“Stiles. Do you even know how you earn beads down on the French Quarter?”





	You Make it Easy to Watch the World With Love

**Author's Note:**

> So I was just sitting on this lil stydia diddy for awhile (hence the Mardi Gras-ness of it), and its literally just me spewing headcanon pack feels at you. In this lovely canon-divergence, let's pretend that all our fave (known living-sorry Allison) characters happen to be back without explanation and hey, why not they all go to college in the same area!? It SHOULDN'T be canon divergent that they all just go and have a happy, fun life post-6B but alas. Here we are.
> 
> The title is from "You Make it Easy" by Air & Beth Hirsch.

“What are you laughing at?”

Stiles looked down at the source of the question—a glassy-eyed Lydia looking miffed as she pulled her head up, with effort, from his lap. He let out another snort. He didn’t mean to giggle—he wouldn’t want Lydia to think he found her current actions laughable—but his girlfriend was just so damned endearing like this. Hair tangled, lipstick smeared, blissed out on good times and alcohol with good friends at the impromptu Mardi Gras party they had all scraped together at Scott, Stiles and Isaac’s apartment. 

They were in college, and safe, and did things like this now—threw themed parties for their friends, actually _had_ friends who weren’t supernatural entities, bought bulk beads and masks at the party store and cheap vodka at the liquor store two blocks from their building and baked a shoddy King Cake that was thrown around food fight–style mostly.

The couple had bowed out of the chaotically messy living room, employing puppy-eyed pouts (that their friends saw right through, but _whatever_ ) under the guise of Stiles putting Lydia to bed, but not much sleeping was happening in the darkened room. As soon as the door closed, Lydia had pushed Stiles down onto his bed with that patented “I’m about to rock your world” Lydia smirk…but had done little more than paw off his pants and boxers and mouth lazily at him as he watched amusedly from the head of the bed.

As always, Lydia was a vision Stiles could gaze upon for the rest of eternity. But he couldn’t help but laugh at her atypical get-up in this moment.

Sometime between the duo falling gracelessly onto his bed and Lydia attacking his crotch face-first, Lydia had wiggled out of her impossibly itty-bitty purple mini-dress, now simply donning— _oh man, he had to get a picture of this_ —roughly ten strands of purple, yellow and green beads and her lacy black underwear. Any time she languidly bobbed her head, the dozens of plastic baubles shifted, crashing like waves across her bare chest.

“Nothing.” He ducked his head, hiding his grin from her disbelieving eyebrow raise. “I just hope they’re not, like, trying to watch a movie out there or something. Those beads are…noisy.”

At that she let her face melt from its faux-stern expression. She crawls up his chest to hover over him on all fours, her curtain of beads nearly smacking him in the head as they peel away from her body.

“I’ll show you noisy.”

Moments like these, Stiles wants to praise every deity for letting him have the veritable goddess Lydia Martin in his life, in his room, like this, biting her lip and looking at him like he was the actual Sun in the sky.

Moments like these, after they’d spent a night doing the most menial and normal things with each other and their friends—going up against each other in beer pong, shimmying on the makeshift dance floor to Kira’s skillfully crafted party playlist, sneaking kisses on the balcony and rendezvousing in the bathroom to talk about what their friends were up to when they thought no one was looking, because ‘Stiles, a couple that gossips together, _stays_ together.’

Everything they’d gone through, all the loss and heartbreak and near-death experiences, and what did they have to show for it? An achingly regular and sometimes dare they say, _boring_ , existence together, where their biggest worries were if their trivia team would make it to playoffs at the pub on the corner when Scott and Isaac were always mucking up on answers they resolutely said they knew to be correct, and when they’d be able to get dinner together that week.

And it was perfect. Such a perfect, boring life together studying together on FaceTime, and making homemade pizzas and complaining about having no money and—and hooking up haphazardly after a party at the boy’s place, with most of their supernatural hearing-inflicted best friends mere steps away, apparently.

“Hello? You in there? Wanna get in somewhere else?” Lydia grinded down on him, beads again nearly hitting Stiles in the nose.

“I can’t in good conscience fuck you right now. I think you are quite drunk and I’m not totally convinced you even know who I am.”

She lowered herself onto her elbows, her face now inches above his own on his pillow. 

“That’s not something to joke about,” Lydia said, face hardened. “Of course I know it’s you, Stanley.”

Stiles snorted, before snagging her around the waist, flipping their positions. Smacks a kiss on her lips, trying to fit himself against her necklace-covered body, the strands stretched over her like a top. She only grins at his discomfort.

“Is the bead shirt comfy?”

“SO comfy, Lyds.”

That feline grin. “Do you want my beads, Stiles?”

“Mmmm. Gimme.”

She regarded him seriously. “Stiles. Do you even know how you earn beads down on the French Quarter?”

“Huh. Go down on a pretty girl? Maybe? Hopefully?”

“Uh uh,” she tutted at him, already pawing at his shirt. “Off.”

Rolling his eyes amusedly, he slid out of his green tee, chucking it to the floor. “How ‘bout now? You get my _dignity_ , I get my beads.”

With a playful huff, Lydia grabbed the strands, making to transfer them to Stiles’s freckly neck, but instead whipped the handful off the side of the bed, a challenging glint in her eye.

Stiles loved every iteration of Lydia. Frazzled, finals-obsessing Lydia; calculating, competitive Lydia; sluggish, sleep-mussed Lydia. But there was something especially delectable about tipsy, inhibition-free Lydia.

He shifted his weight to one elbow to twine a free hand with hers, kissing first the bridge created by their interlinked fingers where they rested on his pillow, then her exceptionally rosy cheek, then her sweat slick sternum. She silently observed his brief worship, smirking as he buried his head in her chest as the finale, earned beads forgotten.

“Tonight was really fun,” came his muffled voice. “We’re going to be finding cake in every crack and crevice of this tiny-ass apartment for weeks.”

He felt delicate fingers graze the curling hair at the nape of his neck, gently rearranging him more comfortably atop her. She murmured in agreement, fluttering eyelids betraying her sleepiness.

He knew the conversation would veer to the one-sided at this point; most nights out ended like this for the couple, him rambling on about the highlights and low points of their night, cracking himself up at his own observations, as he effectively lulled Lydia to sleep midway through his spiraling monologues on everything from the merits of having at least seven go-to karaoke songs in your repertoire to his detailed critiques of each mixed drink he was served by the less-than-adequate bartenders at their favorite dive.

He could never find it in himself to be offended at her passing out on him. If he could bore Lydia Martin into unconsciousness for the rest of his life, so be it—that would be his cross to bear.

To witness her during the peaceful reprieves from bansheehood, curled up to him, warm breath on his face, content and safe in his arms—it was just too much sometimes. To think that he may have been denied this, had they not gone to hell and back for each other, pulled each other from the edge time and time again—

Her clearing her throat, coughing daintily as if to not disrupt his fast-moving thoughts (or more likely, to pointedly pull him out of them) jarred him from his depressing reverie. He cleared his throat back obnoxiously, grinning, before bending down to pick his comforter off the ground, messily smoothing it atop their half naked bodies, pillowing his head upon her chest once more.

“Hey, Lyds?”

“Hmm.”

“What do you want for breakfast tomorrow?”

Her arms circled his shoulder blades, fingernails etching spirals into his warmed skin.

“Whatever Chef Stilinski feels like.”

“I’m thinking…pancakes. Eggs. Bacon. Dexter season three. Cuddles. Mmmmmm.”

“Sounds perfect, my love. Now go to sleep.”

Even with an earful of Lydia heartbeat, he could still hear the murmurs of his pack, the occasional bark of laughter slipping through the wall. Scott’s caffeinated giggle. Malia’s deep, disbelieving tone at something Isaac is saying, Kira and Danny singing along goofily to a commercial jingle. And Lydia’s soft breathing, always Lydia, Lydia, Lydia.

He shut his eyes, and conjures up visions of pancakes in bed with _her_ for the rest of their days.


End file.
